


Throne

by thatgirlwhodraws



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwhodraws/pseuds/thatgirlwhodraws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When King John passes away, he leaves his only heir, the young prince Dean, in the care of his Guardian Angel Castiel.  Despite Dean coming close to twenty now, he has not yet deigned him fit to rule the kingdom.  Dean hates that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throne

Dean hated that throne.

 

It always sat there, mocking him, in his lowest moments.  He was not fit to sit upon it until his guardian deemed him ready.   His guardian being  -- Castiel.  Angel of the Lord,  angular black wings, a voice like thunder, a face like stone, an attitude befitting a bitter eunuch.  Considering he was well and truly an Angel, perhaps that wasn’t far from the truth.  It wasn’t like Dean dreamt about that.

 

He did.

 

When Castiel spent long hours tutoring him in the ways of the kingdom, schooled him on the proper etiquette for each region of their vast lands, Dean burned for him.  Perhaps it was the way he sometimes spoke softly, his voice like downy feathers one moment before morphing into the graveled growl he often spoke with.  He looked to have about ten seasons on Dean’s meager twenty, something he might’ve thought would have deterred him in the past -- but no.  Castiel was lovely.

 

“This is just a vessel, Dean.” Castiel said gravely, his tone long-suffering with the weight of many reminders that fell on deaf ears.  “I am using the body of a righteous man, to guard you from harm until the day you are meant for the throne.”  And oh, Dean hated _him_ too. 

 

“And _when_ will I be ready for the throne, O Castiel?” Dean asked with false sweetness, smug when the angel squinted at him and cocked his head, trying to read Dean’s expression.  This too, was an argument they had had by the baker’s dozen.  Castiel’s lips pursed, his wings flexing, the most expressive part of him while his face stayed neutral.  It boiled Dean’s blood.

 

“You are not yet meant to rise to the throne, Your Highness.  You have much left to learn yet before you are ready.”

 

Petulant, Dean sent the books he’d been studying to the ground with a sweep of his hand.  Castiel froze, unmoving with inhuman stillness.  Dean snarled at him.

 

“I’ll never _be_ ready if you continue to pile bookwork upon me!  A good King should be studying swordsmanship, not how to take tea with the ladies of the far north!” He bellowed with a force that rivaled his late father’s massive boom, but Castiel was unmoved.  Then his eyes narrowed, and he bent at the waist to gather the things Dean had knocked over before gently placing them on the table.

 

“If you wish to spar,” Castiel began, dusting his hands on the front of his shirt, clean-pressed as always.  “You need only ask, Your Highness.”

 

And that was how Dean found himself standing in the throne room warily, Castiel standing between him and the object of his desires -- literally, for once, rather than a figurative notion.  Castiel’s arms were loose at his sides, while Dean had his sword in hand, his fingers clenched tight on it.

 

“If you want the throne, come and take it, Highness.”  Castiel said calmly, his voice level.  There was a darkness in his eyes Dean had never seen before, an intensity that made him shiver.  Dean’s grip faltered on the sword.

 

“You are not even armed. You expect me to swing my blade at you and cut you asunder?” Dean scoffed, hiding his true concern under layers of boasting and sarcasm.  The thought of coming at Castiel with a blade without armor -- without even a weapon to protect him, was unsettling.  He was trying to find the lesson here, the challenge Castiel was trying to issue him.  Castiel shook his head, raising is palms upwards and beckoning Dean towards him.

 

“Come at me, Highness.” Castiel’s voice was a little firmer this time.  Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded, the silence hanging heavy between them before Dean came at him, legs carrying him at full speed.

 

Dean had a basic knowledge of swordplay from his father and sparring with his brother, on occasion.  He always won, trumped Sam’s height with his superior brute strength.  Castiel was taller than he, lean like Sam, and he expected the same outcome.  His sword was coming down one moment -- and then it was not.

 

The movement had been too quick, too fast for his eye to follow.  Dean had a feeling of weightlessness, then his cheek pressed into the cold marble floor beneath him, his arms held at the small of his back so that his upper-arms ached from the strain.  He struggled, howled, bucked, but could not dislodge Castiel’s firm grip.  He kept at it until he was panting, his breath fogging on the marble and leaving droplets of moisture there.

 

Dean felt Castiel move, rather than saw him.  His weight came down more heaving on Dean’s back, his knee pressing on his legs to keep them still.  His stubbled jaw brushed the curve of Dean’s ear, his breath strangely cool against Dean’s hot and sweaty skin.

 

“That, Dean,” He began his voice low, a seductive rumble that Dean couldn’t mistake for anything but _anger_ or _lust_.  “Is why we have not yet moved onto swordplay. You do not even understand the _basics._   And if you cannot convince someone to be a friend, you will have to fight them.  And you will _lose_.” He growled, grip tightening a fraction.  “So when I tell you we must study, you will study.  When I deem you worthy of learning swordsmanship, I will teach you.”

 

Castiel’s grip released him, and he was standing again. He looked unruffled by what he had done, but there was color high on his cheekbones, his pupils blown, lips wet and shiny where he’d licked them.  Then he was gone in a flutter of wings, aching with soreness and the stirring of arousal.

 

Correction: Dean didn’t hate the throne.  He hated Castiel for making him want to earn the right to sit upon it.


End file.
